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"You packed enough underwear?" I ask. Rhyven stares. Silence. Stupid. I smile. "What."

"That's what you're asking."

"Important logistical question."

"No."

"You'll be gone minimum—"

"No." I laugh. Good. His eyes soften. Barely.

Then move away. Toward my bed. Window. Books. Anything but me.

"How long do you think." I ask.

"Don't know."

"Useful."

"No."

"You know where you're sleeping?"

"Probably military quarters."

"Probably?"

"Still being assigned."

"Food?"

"Eirea."

"What."

"Yes."

"Medical?"

"Yes."

"Containment?"

"Yes."

"Extra blade?"

"Yes."

"Dragon—"

"Vyrael is capable of packing himself."

I laugh. "Debatable." The smile disappears slowly.

Not intentionally. There it is again. The thing we keep walking around.

Rhyven closes some of the distance between us and looks at me. Really looks. His eyes are wrong tonight. Not wrong. More open. That's worse. Golden. Tired. Something beneath them I know now. Fear.